


your eyes only

by saintberry



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: F/M, back in 1917 clearly, the soulmark fic i started 100 year ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 06:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11754090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintberry/pseuds/saintberry
Summary: "There are countless times he feels her eyes on him – and just as many moments she catches him staring. There is always a curiosity in her gaze, a slight frown creasing her forehead. He’s tried to subtly search her skin for any sign of an initial – but he does not want to be caught ogling the queen, and he’s struggled to spot any letter so far.Of course, the rumour was that the initials appeared in the same place. Caroline had told him once that the ‘C’ on the small of Byron’s back was her undoing. If the queen does have the ‘W’ to match his ‘V’, it is only visible to those seeing her undressed.And that is a thought he tries to push out of his mind."AKA the Vicbourne soulmark fic that I found lying in my drafts xo





	your eyes only

**Author's Note:**

> @dctrose on tumblr, holla. shoutout to 1d's 'if i could fly' for the song title, which is pretty unrelated to the fic, but hey ho.

It has been years since he thought about the small black ‘V’ that marks his ribs. Caroline used to rub her thumb over it, trying to smudge it, wipe it away. Even kisses and gentle nips could not change its shape, as stubborn as the ‘G’ on the small of her back. No ‘W’ ever appeared on her skin, no ‘C’ morphing onto his. They weren’t soulmates – or so their bodies declared.

He spent years trying to convince himself it didn’t matter. He and Caroline were in love – that was more important than a stupid initial. It didn’t change that he dreamt of waking up and seeing a ‘W’ on her – but the ‘G’ stayed, then along came George Gordon Byron, and suddenly it was harder to convince himself that the marks were meaningless.

Perhaps the ‘G’ on her back was the reason she chased after Byron so hard. Perhaps the lack of ‘W’ was why she embarrassed him so willingly. Either way, he was the one holding her hand as she died – whispering to her to hug Augustus tight for him. Soulmate or not, he was the one there for her. ‘G’ or not, he was the one to mourn her.

He wonders if the person with his ‘W’ will ever mourn him.

Politics has grown tiring, bored of trying to fend off the Tories after every vote. He is uncertain how much longer he can keep them from toppling him – already looking forward to retiring to the rooks of Brocket Hall. A new young queen will revive the nation – but he is not certain it will make his job any easier.

He is pleasantly surprised, then, when the queen turns out to be more intriguing than exhausting – bright-eyed and innocent, yes, but with a dignity and a passion he finds he admires. He still doesn’t think of the ‘V’ on his ribs – not until she announces that she will reign as Queen Victoria, and then turns her back on him to wave from her balcony.

Suddenly the skin on his ribs tickles, the hairs on his arms standing upright. He tries to convince himself that it is merely the majesty of the moment, the queen’s first chance to wave to her public. She cannot be the ‘V’ on his ribs – the constitution would not allow it, and he has no doubt that fate will be constrained to the same rules.

Anyway – her name is Alexandrina. Her soulmate would have an ‘A’.

That’s what he tells himself, at least.

The more time they spend together, the harder it is to believe.

He finds himself staring at the ‘V’ in the mirror – wondering if it’s supposed to stand for her. He has never felt more comfortable than when he’s with her. They ride out alone together, sit and chat for hours after dinner. Dash runs between their legs as they stroll around the gardens, talking of nothing and everything. He and Caro may not have been soulmates, but they had a companionship – this, he thinks, is something even more. His skin tingles where they touch, his heart beat wildly at the mere sight of her. When she smiles that radiant smile, he finds his lips raising through no conscious decision of his own.

There are countless times he feels her eyes on him – and just as many moments she catches him staring. There is always a curiosity in her gaze, a slight frown creasing her forehead. He’s tried to subtly search her skin for any sign of an initial – but he does not want to be caught ogling the queen, and he’s struggled to spot any letter so far.

Of course, the rumour was that the initials appeared in the same place. Caroline had told him once that the ‘C’ on the small of Byron’s back was her undoing. If the queen does have the ‘W’ to match his ‘V’, it is only visible to those seeing her undressed.

And  _that_ is a thought he tries to push out of his mind.

It is after her birthday ball that he becomes truly suspicious. They dance together, as they always have. His heart almost beats out of his chest, unable to hide the fond smile, the pleasure at having her back in his arms. But rather than rest her hand on his waist, she slides it higher, covering the spot where he knows his ‘V’ is inked. Her gaze is fixed very firmly on his face, and he can tell she is trying to gauge his reaction – quickly attempting to replace surprise with stoicism.

She narrows her eyes at him, the corners of her lips tilting up – perhaps in triumph – and he is almost certain, then. Without a matching letter in the same place, there is no reason for the warmth of her fingers over  _that_ spot. Unless she is made for him, and him for her, there is no way for her to know exactly where to lay her hand.

His suspicions over her motives are confirmed a few days later. He is watching her paint, having dragged a sleeping Dash close enough the window to provide her with enough light. It was the first thing she pointed out when he arrived, her eyes lighting up as he complimented her for her ingenuity.

They chat aimlessly about people at the palace, about politics. And after a silence, the only noise the stroke of her paintbrush, she begins, with purposeful casualness:

“Did you hear, Lord M, that one of my dressers has found her soulmate? She had a ‘C’ on her wrist, and found one of the chefs – a Mr. Francatelli, do you know him? – had an ‘E’ to match her name.”

He is immediately wary, watching her as she continues to paint, refusing to look over and give herself away.

“A happy occasion indeed, ma’am.”

“Of course, I’m sure of all people, you know what it is like to have a ‘C’ etched on your skin. Where were your and Lady Caroline’s matching soulmarks?” He can tell she is trying seem conversational, still acting as though she is focused on her art. Yet he is not blind to the creeping tone of jealousy in her voice. “You and Lady Caroline were soulmates, I assume. I have heard often enough that it was a love match.”

“It was, ma’am.”

“So you were soulmates?”

When he takes a moment to reply, she looks up at him, finally. Under her gaze, he sighs.

“We were not, ma’am.”

She shows no surprise. He knows she does not feel it.

“What letter did Lady Caroline have?”

She is playing with him – leading him to the place she wants the conversation to go. He has always found it so hard not to want to follow her in every direction.

“She had a ‘G’,” he relents. “For Lord Byron, I can only assume. Either way, it did not matter. We loved each other until the end.”

With the tiredness in his voice, he can see a flicker of something in the Queen’s eyes – perhaps guilt, for forcing him into this conversation. But she continues – she is too stubborn to backtrack now.

“And what letter do you have, Lord M?”

The ‘V’ on his ribs burns. Because  _of course_ it’s her, and  _of course_ it can’t happen. For all the hours spent together, all the dances, all the dinners – the letters on their skin matter even less than it did with him and Caroline. She is the queen, and he is her Prime Minister. She is young, and he is old. The universe may be telling them something, but the laws of nature – and of the British constitution – tell them differently.

“Oh, I do not think that matters now. I am far too old to meet my soulmate.”

“What if you have already met them?”

“Then I am sure they have many better options than me regardless.”

She narrows her eyes at him, but she has not quite worked the conversation to the crescendo she has hoped. He sees a chance to escape the revelation he feels they are so close to.

“You are so focused on your painting, ma’am, I’m not sure a discussion of soulmarks is entirely fruitful right now. I would not like our conversation to be the reason Dash was denied a true likeness, and you know how infrequently he sits as calmly as this.”

“Of course, Lord M.” She plays with her paintbrush for a few moments. “It is just… so many people are of the opinion that I should marry Prince Albert. But I do not have an ‘A’ anywhere on me.”

He sighs, recognising her continued feigned innocence. He is begrudgingly impressed by her wiliness, though clearly he is not getting out of this conversation.

“You know that it is a contentious opinion that the marks hold any meaning, ma’am. Many happy marriages are between those without matching soulmarks, as many happy marriages have occurred between those who do have them. It is not a definitive rule.”

“But I should like to marry my soulmate.”

“There are many things that many people should like, ma’am. I do not think it is possible for all of them to happen.”

“But this can.”

She’s staring at him, and he sighs. Placing her brush down on the palette, she rises from her chair, coming round to stand in front of him. She has him where she wants him – and he prepares himself for the strength it will take to make her see sense.

“Where is your soulmark, Lord M?”

“Ma’am, is this conversation really –”

“May I guess?”

“You should be painting, not playing games.”

“One guess, Lord M, that is all I ask. All you have to say is yes or no.”

“And then you will return to your painting?”

“If that is what you’d like.”

There is an intensity in her blue eyes that he cannot escape. He sighs, relenting: he will always relent. He has never been able to deny her.

“One guess, then, ma’am.”

“And you will confirm it?”

“Yes.”

Her gaze is focused on his, the silence in the room palpable. When she speaks, it is with finality: it is not a guess, it is a fact.

“It is on your ribs.”

He does not reply immediately – despite the overwhelming truth of the situation. When he does not speak, the Queen does: the nail in the coffin.

“And it is a ‘V’.”

There is no point denying it now. She has chased him in circles – and she has finally caught him.

“Yes, ma’am.”

There is a light in her eyes when he finally admits it. She looks at him with such hope, her painting abandoned, her face so open and earnest.

Her eyes widen a little – shock and excitement frozen on her face. And then she laughs, a beaming smile, biting her lip to keep from grinning any more. It is the most wonderful smile he has ever seen – bright as the sun, and far more beautiful. But his own expression could not be more different. When she is hopeful, he is realistic.

He may have found his soulmate, but he certainly can’t keep her.

“Ma’am, whatever you are going to say – you know that this is impossible.”

But his queen is not one to take no for an answer, despite his protests.

“What is impossible about this?” She steps closer to him, determination etched onto her features. “You are my soulmate. I have a ‘W’ where you have a ‘V’. That is the easiest thing in the world.”

“No, ma’am, I am your Prime Minister. The Tories would not be persuaded simply because we have each other’s initials on our skin.”

“The Tories would try and defy fate?”

“The Tories stood in opposition to the Jamaica Bill, ma’am. There is not a lot they wouldn’t try to defy if it meant bringing me down. They would never allow me to be by your side and in the Lords, let alone running the country.”

“Then pass your title to your brother. Resign and take your place as King consort instead.”

She makes it sound so simple, and he wishes more than anything that it could be. He wishes his list of objections could be shorter. He wishes she hadn’t spent so many hours clearly finding answers to them.

“Even then, ma’am, the match would not be morganatic. I am not a prince, and you are the reigning monarch. If your children were not permitted to retain your title or wealth, the country would be in disarray.”

“In what way would it not be morganatic? You have a title. You have an income, lands, a household. Everyone is so ready to see me marry Prince Albert, yet he has none of those things. You are more my equal than he is.”

“In your eyes, perhaps, but Parliament and the public will not feel the same.”

She huffs, and he wonders if she is close to stomping her foot. It would not surprise him.

“I am the queen, and it is not for Parliament or the public to judge me. Surely there is some kind of precedent we can cite? The rules have always managed to bend for soulmate marriages.”

It is the truth, he cannot deny. The minute she senses he is won over, she moves even closer, crouching down and cradling his hands in hers. His skin tingles where she touches him – the ‘V’ on his ribs feeling more prominent than ever.

“It will be difficult, ma’am.”

“I don’t care. You are my soulmate.”

“I wish it were that simple.”

“We will make it that simple.”

It is a tone that broaches no argument.

It is the tone she is tempted to use on the Privy Council when they approach them a week later. But he warns her beforehand that they must ask, not command. They must be seen to meet the council’s demands, be seen to placate the Tories the best they can. His resignation will be demanded. His title passed to his brother. No doubt the Tories will form the next government. Guilt stirs in his stomach at the thought of abandoning the Whigs for his own happiness, but his government has been on shaky ground for longer than he’d care to admit.

For the entirety of his premiership, really.

He stands by her throne, his usual place beside her. Her fingers fidget in her gloves, and he can tell she is nervous.

The way his heart is beating tells him that he is, too.

When it comes to the announcement, the Queen does not beat around the bush.

“Lord Melbourne and I have discovered that we are soulmates.”  A gasp runs around the room, scandalised shouts and protests. It takes a firm command for Victoria to gain their attention once more, before she returns to a more vulnerable tone. He wonders when she learnt to act so well. “As all soulmates do, we have each other’s initial, in the same place. We are here to appeal to you today, for your advice as to how to make the match possible. I am in desperate need of your assistance, my lords. If I do not marry him, I will marry nobody else. I am asking you, as your queen, to help me find a way.”

He is proud of her performance. Her vulnerability will make their opponents believe they can extort her – but he would rather have an unbalanced agreement than no agreement at all.

“You are so clever, my Lord M. You guessed exactly how they would react. They all believe they can use this to their advantage.”

“It is an asset in politics to stay one step ahead. And even more of an asset to be able to lead people to where you want them to go.”

Their demands are everything he expects and more. He is to resign, take an oath of neutrality, watch as the Tories take over the House once more. But rather than pass his title on, it is to be destroyed – he is to have served as the second and final Lord Melbourne. He will have no formal title – an allowance of a mere £15,000.

“It is an insult!”                                                                                                                

“It is what we expected, ma’am.”

“And what of your brother?”

“He is childless, ma’am. Even if he received the title, it would be dissolved upon his death. And Lord knows he has enough titles of his own. My father only wanted my elder brother to have the title, anyway. It is, in some ways, for the best.”

“So you will agree to these terms? They are simply there to embarrass us!”

He brushes his thumb over the back of her hand to soothe her, the small touch still such a wonder to him.

“I know they are, ma’am, that is absolutely their intention. But I have worked my entire life, I have enough savings not to need an allowance, and I have no doubt that you will be generous if I need it. I am tired of politics – I don’t want a title. I simply want to be your husband.”

She pauses then, a pleased smile on her face.

“I think that is the first time you have said it without seeming reluctant.”

A laugh escapes him then.

“I apologise if I have come across as anything other than eager. I have simply tried to remain restrained should we not be able to convince the necessary people. Trust me, I am… the very opposite of reluctant. Being your husband is all that I desire.”

Her cheeks are flushed, biting her lip to restrain from smiling too widely.

“Good.”

Once they’ve agreed to the terms, things move forward far more quickly than they expect. He resigns as Prime Minister, takes a public oath of independence, and the title of Lord Melbourne is destroyed. He is simply William Lamb again – soon to be Prince William of England. It is an unequal match – but he has traded his title for Parliament’s approval, his seat for the security of the throne.

Peel forms a government, and Melbourne – the ex-Lord Melbourne – finds himself dining with his former rival in the evenings. The queen is polite enough to the new Prime Minister – but he can’t help but feel satisfaction that even before they discovered their connection, they were far more familiar than she ever is with Peel. Even if Peel insists on calling him  _Lamb_ every other sentence.

New government in place, his seat in the House empty, everything is ready for their wedding. The public is divided in opinion – half scandalised, half supportive. It is a romance for the ages, of course – but it is one the constitution fought to keep from happening.

Parliament and the Privy Council have been appeased. Even the Duchess of Kent has given reluctant approval – never forgetting the look on her husband’s face when he was forced to give up his soulmate to marry her.

It is only then that he allows himself to hope. It is only then that he feels this might happen.

She proposes to him officially, once the Privy Council have officially agreed to the match. They walk out into gardens as they so often have done, admiring the flowers now in full bloom. He wonders who will tend to the glass houses at Brocket Hall once he has moved into the palace. He supposes one day it will pass on to one of their younger children. His nephew will be disappointed.

She leads him to a spot by the fountains, coming to a gentle stop. Her hands slide into his, an action that has become familiar between them. He adores the woman in front of him – but he has never been a man of indulgence. When they’re married, he will be able to finally give in.

“Lord M,” she says, and the corner of his lips quirk into a smile. She gives him a look to stop him from speaking. “I know you will protest that you are no longer Lord Melbourne, but you will always be my Lord M. And I am hoping, should you say yes to my question, that you shall be my Lord M forever.”

He watches her patiently, his thumb brushing over the rise and fall of her knuckles, a gentle adoration to his gaze.

“I don’t think any woman could be happier than I to discover their soulmate. I have hoped and prayed that it would be you. And we have done the impossible because of it. The world has been so cruel to you in the past, but I will never let it harm you again – and I will never let you be alone. My Lord M – my  _William_  – will you marry me?”

He smiles earnestly then, ducking his head to kiss her hand. Her words are too sweet -- her concern for him too kind. When he looks up, his face is inches from hers, and all the breath leaves his body. Her expression is a mixture of apprehension and wonder – realising how close they are to their happy ever after.

“Yes.” It is the softest murmur, but all anxiety on her face evaporates, replaced with a smile. He enjoys it for the briefest of moments, before he cannot resist leaning in to kiss her.

She whimpers when their lips touch – from surprise, suspense, or something else – the softest, sweetest little noise, and he finds his hands sliding around her waist, her small fingers cupping his cheek. He’s waited so long, so hungry for this, but he wants to make it perfect for  _her._  His lips are gentle against hers, soft and sweet. When he pulls away, her cheeks are flushed, eyes sparkling brightly.

He finds himself more affectionate after that, gentle touches, stolen kisses. Her body slots perfectly against his as they dance together, and her mouth is firm and insistent when she pushes him up against a wall in a corridor adjacent the ballroom. Her kisses get bolder – her tongue sliding over his lips, the faintest nip of teeth.

They need to get married  _now._

It takes a month or two to plan the wedding. It is to be a muted affair – for a royal wedding. Six bridesmaids, hundreds of guests, and a reception full of European royals and nobles. He has spent his career dealing with important people. He expected to finally escape them with retirement – but he will never be able to retire from the public eye now.

He used to be so tired of that life – but she smiles at him, and he no longer finds he minds. He knew a young queen would revive the nation.

It seems she has revived him, too.

He has one remaining brother to be his best man, one remaining sister to be a bridesmaid. She dances around, jubilant, when she’s invited into the wedding party.

“I’m so happy you’re marrying your soulmate, William. And somebody I can approve of.”

A small smile graces his lips, giving an amused response.

“Now if only Fred will say the same about your marriage.”

The look on his brother’s face makes it clear that that approval will never come.

Sunshine filters through the curtains when he wakes up on their wedding day, barely able to sleep. A mixture of nerves and excitement runs through his veins, wide awake regardless of the early hour. His stomach flips as he tries to eat, picking at his breakfast. The ceremony is not until sunset, aimless hours to fill until then, but he is separated from Victoria, only to see her again when they meet at the end of the aisle.

He fills the hours wandering the grounds, eventually called in by the servants for lunch and the start of preparations. His is given a fancier jacket than he has ever worn before, rich and covered in jewels, and trousers far too tight for a man his age. But today is the day he becomes the queen’s husband, and he imagines his life will become far more lavish than he has ever been used to.

He stands at the end of the aisle, feeling the prickle of eyes on him as he waits. Westminster Abbey has never felt so small, crowded with people, most of whom he’s never met before. He doesn’t care, though. There’s only one person he wants to see today.

When the fanfare begins and the doors open, a shiver runs through his whole body, fighting himself not to turn around to look at her. The skin of his ribs burn, the ‘V’ on his side feeling part of him more than ever.

And then she reaches him, and he can finally turn, and he can’t believe this is happening. She’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, hair adorned with flowers, a radiant smile on her face. She’d kept all plans for her wedding dress a secret, and though unconventional, the white is stunning. He’s the luckiest man alive.

He tries his best to drink in as much as possible, despite the perhaps unnecessary pomp that surrounds the ceremony. He repeats his vows in a gentle tone, trying to steady the nerves and excitement in his tone. There’s a brightness in her eyes as she repeats hers, and then he holds her small hand in his, slides the ring onto her finger, and suddenly she’s his  _wife._

The reception is brief, allowing them the faintest taste of cake and champagne. The bouquet is caught by one of her bridesmaids, and he is congratulated by royalty from around the world. All the while, her small hand is clasped in his, her beaming smile reserved just for him.

And then he’s opening the door to what will become  _their_ bedchamber, and he wonders quite how they made it here. He’s had the ‘V’ on his side his whole life, and yet finally, after so much and so long, they can start their life together.

That night is the first night that he gets to see the ‘W’ that marks her as his – etched on her ribs, matching the ‘V’ he has carried for so long. He brushes his lips over it, the softest, gentlest of touches: so afraid that it might smudge with anything more.

It doesn’t. He discovers in the months that follow that even roughness does not rub away the mark, nor tongue nor teeth. The words of Shakespeare enter his head as his lips travel further south, Victoria’s body warm and wriggly under his. Love is an ever-fix’d mark. And he knows he would bare this out until the edge of doom.


End file.
